


Little Boy Sweet

by honey_wheeler



Series: The Pointer Project [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Cunnilingus, F/M, Underage Sex, dirtybadwrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 14:10:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the moment she anticipates most each time she summons him to her chambers, her note only a blank scrap of parchment, folded and slid beneath his door. This is the moment she remembers with a delicious shiver when she is alone, this moment when she sits back in her chair and parts her knees to him, her skirts tucked around her hips and waist and his hands curled tentatively about her calves as he kneels before her and looks on her with saucer-round eyes and an expression of awestruck wonder. This is what sends lightning zipping up her spine, not his youth itself but the illicit thrill it brings, the unbridled ardency that accompanies it. He is so grateful and so very eager.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Boy Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> So sometimes you get to talking with **[Jal80](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jal80/pseuds/Jal80)** about how, when you think about it, a lot of Pointer Sisters songs would suit various Jon Snow ships, and then next thing you know you're texting things like "JON/YGRITTE = DARE ME, Y/MFY??" and listening to Slow Hand fifty times in a row and then fic like this happens. SUE ME.
> 
> Jon/Catelyn - **[Little Boy Sweet](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d-OfoBNabyg)** (I REGRET NOTHING)
> 
>    
>  _Note: this is basically show ages, assuming Jon's at least 14, happening pre-series. As per usual, imagine this with an age you're comfortable with._  
>   
> 
> _Previously on The Pointer Project:_  
>  Jon/Sansa - **[Slow Hand](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1041783)**  
>  Jon/Ygritte - **[Dare Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1068266)**

It is not the first time Catelyn has done something truly wrong in her life. Perhaps some would argue for certain things to be tallied in the wrong column rather than the right, but she does not think it unfair or unseemly to count herself a mostly good person, despite her scattered failings. So no, not the first time she’s done something wrong. The first time she has cared little for how wrong it is, however…that is a distinct possibility.

The hallmarks of Jon Snow’s youth are plain as day; bright, darting eyes, cheeks that are still babe-smooth and filled with color, his body lithe and bristling with energy, fits of cheer interspersed with the same sullen moods that afflict Robb now that he’s nearly grown, slightly more man than boy. She doesn’t entirely remember when she first noticed that energy directed at her, when Jon began to watch her not with wariness but with interest and guilty, lustful hunger. It matters little, though. The result is the same no matter when it began.

Cat had been the object of such intensity once before. Petyr Baelish could barely have less in common with Jon Snow, but his eyes had followed her just the same, the burgeoning desires of a boy-turning-man finding her like an arrow to its target. His attentions had engendered mostly pity in Cat, and they’d been met with sisterly fondness, a fondness she believed, deep down, to be at the root of his feelings for her as well, feelings that were more unnerving than arousing and grew more so with each passing year. Never once did she think to touch Petyr in desire, nor did she have any urge to allow his hands or lips or tongue access to her most secret, shadowed places.

Another thing he does not have in common with Jon Snow.

This is the moment she anticipates most each time she summons him to her chambers, her note only a blank scrap of parchment, folded and slid beneath his door. This is the moment she remembers with a delicious shiver when she is alone, this moment when she sits back in her chair and parts her knees to him, her skirts tucked around her hips and waist and his hands curled tentatively about her calves as he kneels before her and looks on her with saucer-round eyes and an expression of awestruck wonder. This is what sends lightning zipping up her spine, not his youth itself but the illicit thrill it brings, the unbridled ardency that accompanies it. He is so grateful and so very eager.

He sucks in a sharp breath as he nears, his nostrils flaring appreciatively at the smell of her. There is no scruff on his cheek to mar the tender skin inside her thighs, no casual familiarity in the look on his face. He is no husband to take this as a marital right, no partner to take it as custom. To him, it is a gift, and his intensity is as irresistible as Petyr’s was unnerving. It lets Cat understand some small bit of why so many lords and holders seek mere girls for their wives. There’s no denying the intoxicating power of being looked upon with such awe and raw eagerness, of seeing his world shake with each new feeling. It’s not entirely the same; as with so much else in life, girls have a disproportionate share of apprehension and fear when it comes to such things, but perhaps some of the same trust is there, the desire to please and the willingness to be molded.

The first touch of his tongue sends a shudder through her. She holds his face to her with a hand at the back of his head, her fingers knotting in that dark hair so like Ned’s, but softer, so much softer, not yet roughened by the trials of time and age and war. Jon is similarly unroughened, nearly heart-breakingly so, and sometimes Catelyn must steel her heart against him, this living symbol of her husband’s perfidy, the indiscretion she must forgive while never being allowed to forget. In all other ways she is indifferent to him, ignoring his presence in order to tolerate the indignity of it, but here in her chambers, his face between her thighs and his fingertips stroking the soft skin at the back of her knees in time with the stroke of his tongue on her cunt, it is as if he is someone else. As if they both are.

It’s a curious trap; for all that he is someone new to her in the privacy of her chambers, she thinks she might not have ever touched him had he been anyone else. As much as his boyish appreciation affects her, she can’t deny there’s another facet to her behavior, a vengeful pettiness. What better way, after all, to strike out at the way his presence wrongs her – has wronged her for years – than by seducing him, making the symbol of her lord husband’s indiscretion into the symbol of her own as well? It is something she should perhaps regret; he is still barely more than a boy, the half-brother of her children no matter that she’s never been a parent to him, never praised or scolded or punished, never shaped him as a person as she did her own sons. Not until now. It is a debauched sort of shaping, she knows, and in her bitter moments she is racked with guilt. But in her human moments – the moments she is not Catelyn Tully turned Stark, Lady of Winterfell, creature of family, of duty, of honor, but rather merely a woman – she finds it difficult to care. And most days she’s not entirely sure it’s she who did the seducing.

“My lady,” he says against her, his mouth brushing against her lightly enough to make her squirm, but it does not sound like a title on his lips, not now, not when those same lips are between her thighs, wet with her response. Instead the words are a request, a plea. An endearment. They’re all she’ll allow from him, the only softness amid such carnality. She wants to hear them again, but she wants to come again even more, so she pulls his face hard against her, her toes curling on his leather-clad thighs when he groans gratefully and applies himself to making her peak with the vigor of the young. He is eager and ardent, as he’s been since the very first time she allowed him in her chambers. He opens his mouth wide to suck experimentally, pulling away and drawing her flesh between his lips, releasing it with a loud sound only to go back for more. She’s drunk with it, with the power he gives her over him. Her hands fall to the arms of her chair, her fingernails marking crescents in the dark wood. She should pressure Ned to send him away before her life becomes as scarred and marked as that wood, before each is irrevocably ruined. Someday she will. Someday. But not today.


End file.
